


Exit Wounds

by MamaMystique



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU Murder Couple, F/F, Femslash, Smut, Tagging things you haven't written yet is hard, but there will be smut, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaMystique/pseuds/MamaMystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beneath every human veil is a secret.  Bedelia has found a way to bury herself underneath her own, so far and so deep that even she believes that she is safe.  But when a serial killer resurfaces after ten years, secrets begin to find their way out and into dangerous hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge: Lisianthus

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings! Welcome to my AU femslash murder couple OTP: this will be a multi-chapter fic and involve way more characters than I tagged, I just only have the prologue at this point so I'm not quite sure what to put down. The only thing I know for sure is that there will be smut and murder. Eventually. Enjoy!

It was a little-known fact that Bedelia hated the color red.

Or, at least, a very specific kind of red. Bright reds reminiscent of leaves turning in the fall were acceptable and indeed beautiful.  A favorite blouse of hers was so bright red it was almost pink, and that too was acceptable.  Those reds were safe.

But the deeper the red, the more Bedelia couldn’t stand it.  It was too dark, it looked too much like _blood_ , and she could feel herself shuddering. Had she not so loved the taste of red wine, she probably would have stopped drinking it altogether. She could manage to detach her thoughts just long enough to enjoy a glass. 

Bedelia wasn’t squeamish.  Quite the opposite, in fact, as she had proved as a child, the only one of her childhood friends who could stomach holding together her own arm after she had fallen into a ditch and her bones had broken the surface of her skin.  Bedelia had spent a good five minutes checking on the girls who had fainted before she even attended to her own injuries.  She shoved the pain to the back of her mind, and forced herself to focus. 

_When did I become so scared?_   Sometimes she would wonder at night, pretending that she didn’t know exactly why.

Bedelia steeled herself as she entered the florist’s shop, careful to steer her gaze away from the right corner, where the red roses were perched.  They were always _that_ red, as if they had been dipped in a vat, as if someone had taken a white rose and held it underneath a draining corpse.

_No_ , Bedelia scolded herself.  _No._   _Don’t think like that._

It was the roses that truly drove her insane. The way they looked, paired with that sickening smell…

She wouldn’t even have to be here right now if it weren’t for the sake of keeping up appearances.  Had all of her patients just _left her alone_ after her retirement, if they had all just abandoned her as fast as she would let them, she would have locked herself away in her house, _her prison_ , _no don’t think like that_ , and have been content to wither away in her garden.

Dr. Lecter never abandoned anything.

It would be a mockery to say that her last patient, the one forcing her to keep up the act, was stubborn.  She wasn’t stubborn.  Being naturally stubborn required natural emotions, little of which her patient had displayed.  Dr. Hanna Belle Lecter’s human veil, _person suit_ , was so fine tuned that Bedelia wondered why she bothered with appointments when all Bedelia got out of her were vague answers.  There was no progress in their sessions: there hadn’t been for months. It was like sitting in an empty museum, interrogating a painting.

_That’s not fair_ , Bedelia frowned as she passed by several tulips. No, it wasn’t. Dr. Lecter had been very kind to her. She couldn’t deny how trapped she felt whenever the woman was at her home, but she also couldn’t deny how nice her company was at times.  It was a downright battle inside her mind to decide if she was Dr. Lecter’s acquaintance or her pet.

Bedelia traced her fingertips over the petals of a Lisianthus arrangement, soft purple and white.  _These are safe._ She needed something safe. Something to make her own human veil thicker, more impenetrable.  Bedelia had spent years perfecting her own protective suit, something she built to keep the outside world away from her _and herself away from the outside world_.  It was almost ironic, one person suit questioning another. _Except Dr. Lecter doesn’t know.  No one can know._

Bedelia selected the Lisianthus arrangement and pushed the thoughts clouding her mind away.  They had been worse lately – the voice murmuring to her had been growing louder, the more time Bedelia spent in the presence of Dr. Lecter.   Bedelia had always known the threat Hanna posed to her: she had watched the woman kill after all. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little afraid, and afraid of seeing and _remembering_ just how easy it was.  Afraid of being pushed.

Bedelia purchased the flowers and exited the shop staring intently ahead of her, eager to return home, place the flowers in a vase so that they could die in a week, and lock herself away until Dr. Lecter came knocking.  Then she would be free for another week, with no flowers, no patient, and no questioning or testing of her own composure.  The murmur would go away.   

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the red, red, blood red, roses. 

God, she _hated_ them.


	2. Begonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serial killer resurfaces and Dr. Hanna Belle Lecter is consulted by Jack Crawford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will probably not always be this fast, I had this one all plotted out in my head. Reviews and comments are welcomed (and loved!).
> 
> Also if anyone is interested, here is the link for the 8tracks mix I made for this fic: http://8tracks.com/little-miss-rocket/exit-wounds

Jack Crawford was a man who had been pushed so far and so frequently to the edge that he had started to call it home.

“Tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing.”

Beverly stood at his side, forensic kit in hand, less wrecked by shock but no less surprised.

“I wish I could.”

Adan and Lynne Powell, both twenty-five and married only a year ago, were laid out in their bed, perfectly posed with their backs to one another.  Mrs. Powell’s eyes were shut, her arms curled protectively around herself, hair combed and brushed over the pillow.  She almost looked content. There wasn’t a mark on her body, but Jack knew that with a test of her stomach contents, they would find lethal amounts of phenazepam combined with red wine.  He knew, only because Adan Powell at her side was completely drained of blood.

He was shriveled and so, so pale, his face twisted and contorted: he was alive as the blood was sucked from his body through several small holes on his arms.  There was no doubt in Jack’s mind that he had died of organ failure.

“Jack, I thought this guy was gone.”

Jack rubbed his hand over his face, breathing out heavily as he closed his eyes.

“I mean, this was something we heard about at the academy-”

“We can’t assume anything yet. We could have a copycat.”

“After ten years of nothing?” Beverly retorted, more to herself than Jack. 

“Bev, you get started.  We’re keeping this under wraps.  If this asshole is back, I don’t want to give him the attention he got the first time around.  He doesn’t need any positive reinforcement.  The media would have a field day.”  Jack reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone as he turned away from the scene.

“Who are you calling?”

“An asset we didn’t have ten years ago.”

~

Dr. Hanna Belle Lecter was buttoning the front of her navy suit jacket when she got the call from Jack Crawford. The man sounded so on edge, so desperate, that Hanna offered to cancel her appointment to help immediately. In truth, she wanted to see what could push Jack so: his normally frustrated tone reserved for crimes of unspeakable violence was there, but also a trace of shock.

 _Something shocking_.

Nothing shocked Hanna. But the potential to see another killer in action, to admire their art and study their method, was enough that she allowed herself to be interested.

Hanna fingered the deep red tie she had tucked beneath her jacket.  It was patterned with a faint paisley, and she cocked her head as she quickly undid the knot at her neck. She had so looked forward to wearing it for Bedelia: the woman had a distinct absence of deep, rich colors in her home. Hanna didn’t belong there, and indeed felt like a thorn twisting into her therapist’s side. She smirked at the thought as she selected a light grey tie and unbuttoned her jacket to accommodate the change. Sweet, sweet Bedelia. Always choosing her words so carefully, a woman of ice moving so carefully to prevent herself from cracking. Polite almost to a fault.

The tie knotted at her neck, and she tucked it into place, re-buttoning her suit jacket.

It wasn’t hard to tell that Bedelia was uncomfortable around her.  After her attack, she had become such a different person.  No less confident, but more fragile.  She spoke slower and in very guarded tones, and Hanna wondered if that was because she could feel her skin stretching over the scar that decorated the back of her neck. It was something Hanna found herself drawn to: how to push at the cracks to provoke a reaction?

Hanna stopped for a moment as she buttoned the last button.  Bedelia used to ask her why she still came, when she was retired.  Hanna had smiled politely and given a carefully crafted answer that didn’t matter now.  Only recently had she allowed herself to say that she was _protective_ of her, and some part of her felt that was the truth.  Bedelia had a garden behind her house that had long since overgrown and withered.  Had Hanna left her, she knew it would have only been a matter of time before Bedelia let herself fall to the same fate.  It seemed such a _shame_.  Such a personality, such a cold and resilient nature. Hanna wasn’t a thorn in her side: she was a gardener, tending to a lone flower that needed to be cut back, shaped, and nursed to bloom.  Who knew what Bedelia Du Maurier would become once she was uncovered from the frozen earth she hid beneath?  

Will had very nearly bloomed, finally understanding what Hanna wanted him to.  Now, she found her attention increasingly focused on the woman whose company she kept but a few hours each week.  What was she like on the inside?  What made her tick? Hanna could not deny that she found her therapist to be quite exquisite in both her mind and her appearance.

Hanna flicked her wrists and adjusted her cuffs. She knew something was lurking beneath the surface of Bedelia’s composure.  From how cautiously she guarded it, Hanna thought it must be something quite deep and quite interesting to see on the surface.  But how to bring it up?

It was something new to ponder, to experiment. She smiled as she brushed her dark brown hair over her shoulder.  A side project. For now, she had a scene to attend to. Bedelia would have to wait.

~ 

“This is highly practiced.”  Hanna’s head was leveled with Mrs. Powell’s face, tilted so that they faced each other perfectly.  She closed her eyes and inhaled. 

Jack Crawford watched her as she worked. As relieved as he was that Dr. Lecter was here, her methods and metaphors always struck him in an odd way. It was the smelling that always shook him. But if it worked, it worked, and Jack was willing to push aside his discomfort over his friend’s unique approach. She had helped them on so many occasions that it would be rude to make comment.

Hanna opened her eyes.  The scents registered in the catalogue of her brain. Jack’s aftershave (an acceptable brand put on too heavily, too hastily), traces of Merlot on the woman’s lips (an exquisite mix of cherries and black pepper), and a small air of a flower (lavender).

“It seems that Mrs. Powell was treated to her death.”

Hanna’s eyes danced over the woman’s features. She was quite angular in her features, much like Hanna herself.  “Put to sleep, carefully.”

“Quite the opposite in the case of Mr. Powell,” Jack said as he nodded at the other body.

Hanna’s gaze flickered to the man, or the shell of a man, that lay on the gurney beside his wife.

“You told me that this was not the first?” Hanna asked, moving to stand by Mr. Powell. 

“No.  If it’s the same guy, we’re looking at couple number six.”

“After ten years of inactivity?”

“That’s the thing, Dr. Lecter,” Jack crossed his arms, exhaling a frustrated breath, “ten years ago, we though this guy stopped. The first three couples were just like this.  The woman was peacefully overdosed, and the man was bled to death.  There were no common denominators between them of location or age, except that they were all married. And then, couple number four.”

Jack reached for the file on the table near him, pulling out a crime scene photograph and handing it to Hanna. Pictured on a bed was a couple: the woman eerily reminiscent of Mrs. Powell, except the man at her side was not fully drained of his blood.

“This one didn’t go through?” Hanna asked as she plucked the photo from Jack’s grasp.

“Something made him stop and switch how he killed the man.”

“Regret?”  Hanna asked, eyebrow raised. 

Jack shook his head.  “I don’t know.  Maybe. Then the last couple…” Jack pulled another photo out of the file, handing it to Hanna as well. This time, the couple was two women, embracing on a bed.

“The one on the right died in the usual manner – overdose and wine.  But the woman on the left – we found similar bruising patterns to the others on the wrists and legs in how he restrained them.  But this time, there wasn’t any holes or any blood loss.  No phenazepam either.  She was strangled with some sort of soft rope.  We found it around her neck.  No skins cells, of course…that would have been too lucky.  Traces of leather though.”

Hanna furrowed her brow as she studied the pictures. “May I see the others?”

Jack pulled three other photos from the file and handed them over.  Hanna arranged them in her hands.

“All of them are quite beautiful. The couples,” she spoke slowly. As she looked over the photographs, a single thought urged at the back of her mind.  _Why does this seem familiar?_ Hanna’s memory was near perfect, and surgically precise.  But somehow she couldn’t place the feeling that something here was intimate to her knowledge.  _Not intimate enough if I can’t place it._

“I don’t think that was the draw.”

Hanna looked up at Jack, a questioning look in her eye. Jack pointed to the pictures as he elaborated.  “Call me crazy, but I don’t think beauty is what motivated this guy.  Something about these last couples drove him to stop. Something went so wrong _with them_  that he couldn’t finish what he began, and he disappeared off our radar altogether. He _stopped_ himself.”

Hanna looked back down to the photos. Puzzling indeed. What could possibly have gone so wrong that an artist abandoned their work?  Quite poetic work in fact, teeming with possibility.  And that feeling… 

“And then this,” Jack gestured to the couple on the gurneys. 

“It is rather odd.” 

Hanna folded the pictures back together and put them inside the file.  “I’m afraid I need time to think, Jack.  This is altogether puzzling.”

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Lecter. I thought I should ask.”

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

Jack bowed his head.  “We’ll keep you in the loop, if you don’t mind.  I’m going to need all the help I can get on this.”

“Rest assured, Jack, I am always at your disposal to help.”

Jack didn’t respond, instead folding his arms across his chest. 

Hanna turned to leave, folding her jacket over her arm neatly.  Her mind was already alight with thoughts about the case.

“We called him The Sanguine.” Jack’s voice was soft, contemplative.

“Confident…Hopeful.”  Hanna recited the definition.

“Also a shade of red.”

Hanna turned her head to find Jack lost in thought. She nodded to herself once, and left the room. She had plenty of time between now and her rescheduled session with Bedelia tomorrow to think to herself, to delve into her own mind to try and bring to the surface that feeling clouding her thoughts. _Perhaps Bedelia could even help_.


	3. Delphinium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE:  
> I have gone back an edited a few small details in the first two chapters to help make the story a little more cohesive as I move forward.  
> Also, I've added a few more tracks to the playlist for this fic: http://8tracks.com/little-miss-rocket/exit-wounds
> 
> Bedelia and Hanna are getting closer...
> 
> I'd love to know what you think of the fic! Reviews and comments are always welcome. And thank you for the kudos (which I can't seem to say without thinking of Kudos bars...)

Bedelia didn’t realize how rigid the schedule of her life had become until the one element in it that could possibly disrupt it, did. 

Every Thursday for the past seven months, at exactly 4:50pm, Dr. Hanna Lecter would pull into her driveway.  Bedelia would let her into her home, and they would talk for exactly one hour, dancing around carefully crafted facades and lines. It would have been downright infuriating for someone who _didn’t know better_ , who wasn’t aware that finding out what lay beneath Dr. Lecter’s person suit wasn’t rewarding in any sense of the term.  She had been offered a peek underneath the veil, and what she saw frightened her: but not for the same reasons that someone with half of her experience would be.

It wasn’t the idea _or the truth_ that Dr. Lecter was merely creating emotions rather than feeling them that unnerved Bedelia, nor her thinly veiled threats at her potential options when it came to dealing with _the rude_.  Bedelia was very aware of what Dr. Lecter might be doing, but she couldn’t face her own reasoning. It came from _that_ part of her.  Her fingers had been wrapped around the zipper of the suit Hanna clothed herself in, and as she peeled back layer and layer of skin, of emptiness, of _lies_ , Bedelia saw herself. Sitting across from her, legs folded, emotions cold, cruelty abound, a version of herself.

 _Is that how I was?_ _Was I that woman of thick marble and empty layers?  Was I that…beautiful?_  

Bedelia couldn’t silence that part of her mind fast enough.  She pulled the zipper back up, locking that murmur away.  _No_.  _I was wrong._

And still, what unnerved Bedelia most about Dr. Lecter was her eyes.  Specifically, her gaze. Lately, as their sessions developed and Hanna tested new boundaries, going so far as to say that she was _protective_ of Bedelia – something that set Bedelia’s heart plummeting down to the depths of the Earth and soaring at the same time, _yes I have done well, she is pleased with me, I want to show her, NO_ – Bedelia had become hyper-aware of those dark eyes carefully dissecting her body.  It had begun with her scar on her throat.

It was now Friday, at 4:40pm, and Bedelia couldn’t keep track of what she was supposed to be doing. She had woken at 7am, stretched, and began her Vinyasa yoga.  Had anyone been able to see her, they would realize how incredibly strong Dr. Du Maurier was: after the incident, _the attack_ , she had taken to training herself meticulously again. She wasn’t a fighter, but she was steady and balanced, capable of holding her own.  Bedelia finished her sequence with a perfect Shirshasana, balancing the weight of her body in a straight line on her head and forearms.

But now she was at a loss.  Which routine to follow?  Which pattern to imprison herself?  It’s Friday, so she has to clean the dining room and research _no, it’s Thursday.  Hanna will be here soon_.  She lost lapses of time just standing there, uselessly juggling between her meticulous options. It was 4:40pm, and it was Friday, so she needs to shower, but she _can’t_ because Dr. Lecter will be arriving shortly. 

Frankly, it was giving her a headache. _What you’ve done to yourself isn’t healthy, Bedelia_ , and she found herself agreeing.  Here she was, once renowned psychiatrist, once very much in control of her own life, crippled by the walls of her own mental fortress.

Bedelia decided that she was going to take a shower, at least to appease her schedule, and to quell the aching in her head. The heat would do her good.

As she turned the knobs of her walk-in shower, Bedelia felt her muscles instinctively relax.  The warm water hit her wrist, and a sigh escaped her lips. The arguing in her mind quieted. This was a good idea.

She shed her clothes quickly, not bothering to fold them or tuck them away.  She felt better without them.

Bedelia stepped under the spray, letting the heat sting her skin, and she let her head fall back, let herself forget. The pummeling water on the stone deafened her ears to the sound of a car crunching on the gravel of her driveway.

~

Hanna had to admit that it surprised her when Bedelia did not answer the door the third time that she knocked. Usually, it was as if Bedelia hovered by the door with how quickly she answered.  But today, there was no such response.  Hanna leaned her head closer to the door, listening for any signs of life. Silence. 

Her eyes darted to the garage, where Bedelia’s car was parked.  She hadn’t left. And it was unlike Hanna’s therapist to cancel without calling.  She wasn’t rude.

The wind was cold against Hanna’s cheek, and she made a decision. 

From her car she retrieved her lock pick. Careful to leave no marks, to not force the mechanism in any way, the lock clicked into place and the door was swept open just a crack from a cool gust.  Hanna pocketed the tools in her jacket, and entered the house.

It was strange, to enter the space without Bedelia there.  Hanna had never noticed how much like a cage this place felt.  Here was Bedelia’s prison. 

She stood in the doorway of the room where they spoke, staring at the empty leather seats.  It didn’t feel right to enter alone. 

The smell of warm water, the humidity of it, hung throughout the house.  Her ears attuned to the silence, Hanna heard a small dripping: the sound of water hitting stone. And something else, a shuffling. Hanna turned behind her, expecting emptiness, and found something she hadn’t expected to be so entranced by.

Bedelia was descending her carpeted stairs, barefoot, her hair wet and dripping on to the white silk robe that just clung to her shoulders.  _She doesn’t know I’m here_ , and Hanna realized that she had hidden herself behind the doorframe so as to ensure that. Her eyes locked to Bedelia’s neck, where the scar was exposed, pink flesh raised and smooth over the wound.  How soft it looked now, Hanna pondered, so much different when it was angry and red and pouring.

Bedelia was going to the kitchen. It was clear at this point that some part of her had forgotten their reschedule – she passed a clock on the wall that clearly read 5:03pm.

The time had long passed for Hanna to present her presence to Bedelia without shocking her.  No matter what she did now, Bedelia would be surprised, angry, or hurt. And her softness would disappear under such a practiced mask.  Hanna wanted to watch her for just a moment longer while she was like this, exposed, _safe_. 

She was every bit as beautiful as Hanna would have imagined her to be.

The image was seared into her mind, and she quietly stepped out into the doorway.

 _Softly_ , she told herself, watching the woman who’s back was turned to her.

It was strangely and compellingly intimate, standing in plain view and watching Bedelia undone.  Though her pulse didn’t race, Hanna was acutely aware of her own heartbeat, how strong it was, and how that part of her mind she hadn’t entertained involuntarily for such a time was clawing to the surface.  She felt privileged, scared, _nervous_. It wasn’t wise to dwell there.

“Dr. Du Maurier.”

The softness was gone.   As Bedelia turned, a surprised cry caught in her throat, eyes wild and fingers clutching her chest, the mask was securely sealed back in place.  Hanna couldn’t have dug it back out if she had all the time in the world at this moment.

“Hanna!”  There was fear there, genuine fear.  And as much as part of her relished that feeling, that control, Hanna found another part of herself hurt.  The realization shook her.

Bedelia clutched at the silk covering her, pulling it closer and tighter, as if it somehow could have actually hidden her.

“Hanna I-”

“I am deeply sorry, Dr. Du Maurier,” Hanna found herself interjecting, meeting Bedelia’s eyes, “I did not mean to surprise you. You didn’t come to the door when I knocked, and it was unlocked.”

Instinctively, Bedelia brushed her wet hair over her scar.  Her composure back in place, she straightened her shoulders.  “Unlocked? I…I must have forgotten, Hanna, I apologize. I’m so used to Thursdays.”

“It is quite alright.”  It was quite alright.  Silence fell between them, and Hanna averted her eyes to the floor as Bedelia fiddled with the tie of her robe, searching for words.

“I should…I should go change then.”

“If you would rather have me leave-”

“No,” Bedelia said suddenly, “no, please stay. I will only be a moment.”

As quietly as she could, Bedelia slinked past Hanna, their chests briefly brushing in the small doorway.  Hanna saw the bumps that bloomed across Bedelia’s skin, smelling her shampoo, her soap, and yet still some trace of sweat.  It was positively intoxicating, to be able to find traces of the woman, the human, the _body_ , buried underneath the construct.  She wanted to taste it.

Hanna closed her eyes as she chastised her thoughts, denying herself the image of Bedelia retreating up her stairs. _That was rude, Hanna, shockingly rude_.  Also far, far too dangerous.  Bedelia knew better than to think that the door was unlocked. She would probably flee to the hardware store after their appointment, buy herself a new lock, and build her walls even higher. 

As Hanna took her seat and waited, she pondered her emotions, her reactions…and more importantly, Bedelia.  There was something  there, a reason why that softness disappeared so quickly.  The lure was too strong to resist, and Hanna could not repress her urge to _bite_.

~

Beneath her mask, Bedelia was spiraling.

In twenty minutes, she had clothed herself professionally, pressed some powder on her skin and her scar, and dried her hair passably enough. Externally, she was the picture of composure.  Inside, she was screaming.

All throughout their session, Bedelia could not ignore the pit in her stomach that formed whenever she and Hanna locked eyes. Fear coursed through her _she broke into my house and I didn’t even know_ , but somehow, somewhere mixed in was _the way she stared at me_.  Bedelia had felt positively juvenile and naked under that gaze in that brief moment when her veil was drawn back.  It frightened her, and to her horror, she found herself wanting to be _stared at_ again.  How long had it been since anybody had looked at her?  Well and truly looked?  She felt her mind brutally tearing itself apart as it fought to decide what she should desire, and what she should guard.  

Luckily, her body betrayed no such turmoil.

The hour proceeded as normal, talk of work, of plans, of Will.  When it was up, they fell into their normal routine, Hanna asking for a sweet white wine. It was contrary to her usual tastes, Bedelia noticed, but she more than happy to oblige. 

Apples and sugar danced on her tongue as they stood in her kitchen, a comfortable silence enveloping them.

Hanna was the first to break it.

“Jack Crawford has asked me to help him on an interesting case.”

Bedelia raised her eyebrow, taking another sip of her wine and humming for her to continue.

“They believe a serial killer from ten years ago has become active again.”

“Ten years?”  Bedelia scoffed.  “Are they sure?”

“No.  Jack is entertaining the thought that it might be a copycat. But again, the lapse in time.”

“Well, I’m sure it will give you something to think about.”

“It has,” Hanna said, wrapping her fingers around the stem of her own glass, “but it seems to have really shaken Jack. It looks as though this killer was actually able to stop himself or herself.  It’s not like someone who broke their pattern to just fall back in after such staggering amount of years.”

Bedelia swallowed and set her glass on the counter. She swore her hands trembled, but her wine made it safely to the granite.

She didn’t want to encourage Hanna’s delving into the affairs of the FBI.  True, her flirtations gave her an opportunity to keep busy, and Bedelia hated to think what Dr. Lecter might do if she was bored.  But her curiosity got the better of her.

“Can I ask you a detail about the case?”

Hanna offered her a small smile, one of those predatory, trapping grins.  “You are always welcome.  I’ll tell you only what I can, though.”

“The killer.  Who is it?  I mean…what was his pattern?”

“Their pattern,” Hanna corrected softly, “something about this feels different.  It takes such a level of control to stop, such a will and a desire…I’m not sure if it is a man.”

“A female serial killer?”  Bedelia smiled.  _What are you doing_.

“Rare, but not unheard of.”

 _Stop that._ _You know who she’s talking about.  You’ve gone far enough._

Bedelia quieted the voice threatening to burst out by grabbing her glass and draining another sip of the wine.

As she drank, Hanna spoke.  “Perhaps you are familiar with the case, apparently it was in the headlines for quite some time.  The name used was The Sanguine.”

As soon as the sound of the ‘gui’ registered to Bedelia, everything quieted in her mind.  Time slowed, and she didn’t register setting her glass back down on the counter. In fact, she completely missed the glass toppling from the edge she had hastily placed it on.  The world could have shattered around her, and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Luckily, it was only a glass that now rested in a thousand pieces at her feet.

Bedelia didn’t know how to feel. Her past had come back to haunt her, except it wasn’t _her_ past anymore, and it didn’t haunt her.  It felt familiar. _Safe_.

There was a hand on her shoulder, and on her wrist, restraining her.

Bedelia realized she was crouched on the floor, desperately trying to grab at the pieces of the glass, tears threatening the edges of her eyes.  She was sputtering apologies, words, things she didn’t remember.

“Bedelia, stop, you’ll only cut yourself.”

Hanna was there, crouched next to her, holding her.

Bedelia swallowed back her tears, and the fear that she had just, for a moment, been completely lost.

“I’m sorry, I’m so clumsy, I didn’t even…”

Bedelia trailed off as she registered the warmth of Hanna’s hand on her wrist.  Somehow, she had expected her to be cold.  But here she was, and she was skin, and bone, and blood flowed through her and she was _human_. 

“I didn’t mean to shock you, Bedelia.”

Bedelia shook her head.  “No.  You didn’t. I just…didn’t look.” She smiled, eyes locked on Hanna’s hand.

Bedelia couldn’t remember the last time anyone but herself had touched her.  She had forgotten what it felt like, had felt like she was made of stone and diamond and ice. She had nearly toppled over the edge, but the touch grounded her.  _She was human, too._

Hanna took both of Bedelia’s wrists and guided her upwards. Her strong fingers were soon on Bedelia’s right palm, feeling for glass.

“You’re lucky.  Shards of glass can be brutal on such thin skin.”

 _She’s going to pull away._   Bedelia reached with her free hand to hold Hanna’s hands in place.  Touch. It was so important.

~

Hanna knew that for exactly forty-six seconds, they stood there in the kitchen, Bedelia’s deceptively soft yet strong hand pressing theirs together.  Part of it felt like forever.

Hanna wasn’t one for soft touches, for caresses, for whispers.  What she felt was always strong, never dominated.  And yet, with just a soft touch, almost unintentional, Bedelia’s veil was billowing back again. 

And so was hers. 

Bedelia finally released her hands, and Hanna slowly slipped them away, letting her index finger trail over Bedelia’s.  

Their eyes met, and Hanna could see a _sorry_ forming in her therapist’s mind. What came out instead was:

“Perhaps you should go.  I’ll take care of this.”

And go Hanna did.  As polite as ever, they confirmed their next appointment and said goodbye as if nothing had happened. 

As Hanna drove to her home, two things became clear in her mind.  First, she had feelings for Bedelia Du Maurier.  Feelings for the suit of ice she wore, feelings for the soft, quiet version of her, and ultimately, feelings for what was hiding beneath, deep in her bones. In her unguarded moments, she had shown Hanna a flash of her true self. 

The second thing she realized is that, without a doubt, beneath the walls was a caring woman, one who had been hurt before, whose hurt had driven her and shaped her for so long.  One who sought to change the world, to alter and fix the wrongs she saw with others and with herself.

Bedelia Du Maurier was what she couldn’t place before.  
It was her touch. 


	4. Hydrangea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As more questions arise in the case and between Hanna and Bedelia, a killer slips into place, ready to begin the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beverly Katz is still alive in this - shhhhh I'm coping *clutches several bottles of wine closer*
> 
> Comments are always appreciated, and thank you for reading!

“I need you to interpret the evidence.”

Beverly stood stoically behind the white line that determined the ‘safe distance’ zone from Will Graham’s cell.  Her arms were just long enough for the pictures she held in her hand to brush the bars. 

Will pulled the pictures from Beverly’s grip, shuffling them together.

“As per our arrangement.”  Beverly added as an afterthought.  If Will helped her, helped Jack, she could do what she could to help him.  Even if what he was suggesting was insane.

“And what does Jack think of you continuing to bring me cases?”  Will meant it both as a jest and as a serious question: he wanted to know, needed to know.

Beverly took a breath.  “He knows.  That’s why he asked me to bring you this one specifically.”

Will was taken aback for a moment, before his attention focused on the pictures in his hands.  Crime scene photos, six in total.  Couples, murdered. 

“The Sanguine?”  Will recognized the pattern, recognized the images.  He had studied this same case years ago as part of a class. “Why does Jack want me to consult on a case that’s ten years old?”

Will didn’t need an answer as he settled his gaze on the last picture.  Same situation, newer crime scene photograph.  Different couple, same pattern. 

“Oh.”

“We can’t figure out if it’s the same guy, or an admirer who just took…a really long time to come forward.  Either way, it’s not ideal.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Beverly nodded and folded her arms, waiting.

Will’s focus shifted on the pictures, starting with the oldest first.  His eyes closed.

A beat inside his mind, the pendulum of his brain ticking, placing him inside the moment. 

His eyes opened. 

He was in cell, which had expanded by several feet. Standing before him was the first couple, Mr. and Mrs. Court. 

“They are always easy to spot,” Will spoke to himself, and to the dead couple staring back at him.  He speaks low, drawn out, as The Sanguine might.  “Sticking out despite their best attempts to hide. I know what’s happening behind closed doors.  I’ve been trained to, and I excel brilliantly.  They are easy to invite me inside, to prove their façade”

Will’s eyes turned to Mrs. Court, circling her.

“I kill Mrs. Court gently, seducing her into her death. She deserves better, and that is what I give her: that which she had been denied.  She goes to sleep, and I make sure it is easy and painless. She can’t be hurt anymore.”

Will’s gaze shifts to Mr. Court. “I make sure she cannot see and cannot hear him.  Once she is safe, I turn my attention to the problem.  Mr. Court.  Such anger: he must learn to let go of it.  So I drain him of it, drain him of his fight.  He goes slowly, screaming. I don’t even have to touch him.”

The pictures are in Will’s hands, and he shifts between the next two images of the next couples.  “As I said, easy to find.”

Couple number four stands before Will now, Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell.  “And then...Mrs. Rockwell goes to sleep.  Silent, painless. Practiced.  But Mr. Rockwell, he fights.  He doesn’t scream.  He…he pleads. He knows he is being punished, and he cries.  He breaks, begging to see his wife.  I don’t know what to do. He dies an agonizing death, but it somehow…it isn’t right.  I can’t drain him. He’s already gone.”

The fifth picture.  Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell shift out for Miss Havis and Miss Barton. “It’s happening. I know it, but I can’t see it. I can’t see it anymore. Mr. Rockwell has given me doubts about my abilities, of what may have been.  Miss Havis goes quietly, but when I look upon Miss Barton, tied down, afraid, I can’t…I can’t.  She pleads too. I listen, even though I don’t want to. And I end it.  I can’t see anymore.”

The image clears before Will, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Powell before him in the empty, dark space.  “So why you?  Can I see again? Did it drive me mad?”

Will looks down at the picture, looks at Mrs. Powell, and shakes his head.  “No.”

Will closes and opens his eyes again. He is back in the cell, Beverly standing on the other side of the bars.  “It’s a copycat.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, and it’s a dangerous one at that. The Sanguine, the original…he believed he was genuinely doing good.  He tried to be good.  But this…” Will handed the pictures back to Beverly, the latest one on the top of the pile, “This is not good at all.  This is someone mimicking the killer, mocking them.”

“Mocking them how?”

“Mrs. Powell.  She was killed after her partner, when all the others were killed prior. I think this killer isn’t an admirer…I think they know who the original killer was, spent years practicing every detail of their murders, getting everything right, so that they could change what mattered most to the first killer.  Someone has spent years preparing themselves, and now, they’re coming after them.”

“A killer hunting a killer.”

“Exactly.  But they’ve lost track.  They’re going to keep killing until they draw the original out of hiding, so they expose themselves.”

Beverly nodded as she thought. “It’s going to turn into a competition. The original killer driven to kill again, to prove themself, to discredit the copycat.  That’s what the copycat wants.  They want to kill the killer.”

“But only after several more people have died. It’s going to get ugly. Very ugly.   Once the true Sanguine breaks…they’ll break hard.  Both of these killers have very private lives, few social ties. What they do requires time and space for the seduction.  They’re very good at reading people.  They might do it professionally.”

“Therapists.  Psychiatrists.”  Beverly paused for a moment.  “Someone in Hanna Lecter’s circle?”

Will leaned forward, gripping the bars of his cell. “Beverly, listen to me. Be very careful around Hanna. Do not trust her with this. Please.”

Beverly shifted her weight as she tucked the pictures under her arm.  “Okay. I’ll be careful. But she has connections that we may want to use.”

“You don’t use Hanna Lecter.  She uses you.  Just…just please be careful.”

Beverly nodded, turning to leave. “Thank you Will. I’ll do what I can.”

~

It was odd.  With so many different things to ponder, emotions and raw need and anger, everything felt very clear. 

Bedelia stood in her neglected, overgrown garden, heels sinking into the dirt, blouse and skirt doing nothing to protect her from the chill.  The shattered glass was forgotten in her kitchen. 

She took a deep breath, and sorted herself.

_I am furious._

That was very true.  Some one was out there, mocking her, no doubt _defiling_ those works and thereby herself. 

Bedelia dug her nails into her palms. _Do they even understand what they mean?_   No.  No one did.

_I am scared._

Bedelia swallowed the lump in her throat. _I was out_.  She had faced the oncoming darkness and found a way out: she was good at that, she always had been. Bedelia had shown herself a door by which to leave her past behind and she was well through it. But now that darkness was seeping through every crack and it was going to ruin everything. She knew she couldn’t ignore it.

 _I am happy_.

Bedelia closed her eyes and opened them again, watching the light disappear behind the trees.

That should have troubled her. That despite all of this, learning what she had learned, she was delighted.   Or, at least, part of her was.  It was keeping her balanced – precariously so, but balanced none the less.

 _She touched me_.

It had always been a gift of Bedelia’s to read people. Simple emotions, movements, shifts in the eye…it came naturally.  She knew what people desired and what they feared.  It’s what drew her to Hanna initially, agreeing to see her as a patient, and what stopped her from locking Dr. Lecter out altogether. She couldn’t read her. Thus, she was a beautiful experiment, a test and training of Bedelia’s own abilities.  Now she knew.  The darkness was coming for her, it’s form twisting into that of Hanna, and Bedelia found herself welcoming it. 

She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t angry, she wasn’t happy. She was Bedelia Du Maurier, and what the darkness didn’t know was that she knew it well enough to become it, to twist herself, to embrace it and _desire_ it.

_I will meet it._

No more running.  So someone was out there, trying to perform as she had.  Trying to draw her out.  _Let them come_. They didn’t know her any better than anyone else.

Bedelia only realized then that she was laughing. It was cold, and cruel, and true, echoing across the trees and filling her.  The sun was gone from view, the last rays of light painting the sky purple and pink. 

“So then, Dr. Lecter,” she spoke to herself, a smile pulling at her cheeks, “you have shown yourself and I have shown you myself. What shall we do now?”

Hanna wasn’t stubborn.   But Bedelia knew that she wouldn’t move, wouldn’t budge. She was too entranced, and Bedelia was all too excited to let her be.  If Hanna could balance Bedelia’s darkness with her own, then maybe they deserved each other.

_I will have Hanna and she will have me, we will have each other and I will tear this whole goddamn world apart._

She was thinking too far ahead. But it was nice to dream while she planned.

Bedelia kneeled in the dirt, her hand wrapping around the base of the overgrown and unattended rose closest to her. The thorns didn’t register as they dug into her palm, her thin skin, and tore it.  Her grip tightened, and she ripped the rose bush from the earth, brutally uprooting the thing.  Every snap felt like a victory.

 _We will begin again_.

Into the deep darkness Bedelia worked, bloody hands brutalizing the dead garden until all that remained was fresh, raw, exposed earth. Her hands were riddled with thorns and splinters, but all she felt was the touch of experienced hands, strong hands, _Hanna’s tools_. Touch was always what mattered most to Bedelia – she always said that a single touch, given at the right moment with the right intention, could change a person. 

As she looked down at the blood, watching it pool in the faint light of her house and fighting the desire to wash it away, she realized she was wrong.  She wasn’t changed. She was herself again.

Blood dripped down her wrist, staining her skin. It felt warm. 

~

Somewhere, on the outskirts of Maryland, a woman named Charity Rain was speeding down a rain-slicked street when she had the oddest urge to smile.  It suited her quite well: dimples dotted her cheeks and highlighted her beautiful brown eyes. She was a pretty girl, she had been told so all her life.  She was delicate, a dancer and a painter, physical talents she balanced with her intelligence.

Charity had been gainfully employed until a month ago, when she had suddenly quit her job, citing familial issues. Her boss had been hesitant to let her go: Charity was not easily replaced.  But she had summoned tears and confessed to her mother’s horrible medical condition, and she was allowed to leave (with an opportunity for re-employment later, of course).

Charity was also an excellent liar. True, her leaving did have something to do with her mother – the anniversary of her mother’s death. It had been tens years since Lana Rain died, although the media had taken to calling her Mrs. Rockwell. That made Charity’s blood boil. Her mother had wanted to keep her own last name.  But here the press would refer to her only as the wife of a man she had only known for a year: Charity had been twenty-one when they met, in college and busy with academics that she had never had a chance to meet him outside of the occasional dinner with her mother in order to keep up strained appearances.  Now she was thirty-one, and ready.

Charity had been kept from the eye of the media entirely during the entire Sanguine ordeal – she had been smart enough to know that if she ever wanted a chance at what she was about to do, she would have to not exist. It was easier than she ever thought it would be.  Her birth father had been dead for years at that point, and her mother didn’t talk about her much, if ever.

After all, Charity had not been a strictly…normal child. The macabre had always spoken to her, and she was forbidden from ever having pets after it was discovered what she had done to all the neighborhood animals.  Charity couldn’t help herself: she liked the true power that came from squeezing the life out of another living creature.  She had stopped for a time, but once Lana Rain was gone, Charity found herself with limitless opportunities.  She had graduated on to much larger, stupider creatures on the food chain after that, teaching herself the art of the human body, and the art of The Sanguine.

She never told anyone what she was doing in all that time she spent by herself.  It had taken years to perfect the strategy, the approach, the psychology. 

Now, Charity Rain was prepared to do what must be done. In her trunk was several yards of clear, tough plastic tubing, syringes, pumps, restraints. She had bought herself a case of wine from a shop miles away from any civilization she knew, and still had enough phenazepam left from her first display to last her three more times. It wasn’t how Charity liked to do these things, but she could sympathize with the intimacy.   

The road was empty, dark, and cold. Charity rolled down the window of her worn car, letting the wind tangle her long hair.  She smiled a big, perfect smile, letting her shoulders fall up and down as she giggled to herself.  You would have never known that the girl in that car was truly dead at the core, seeking little else in life than the game it gave to her. 

And what fun she was going to have, she assured herself.  Such fun. She had never gone after such a big target, such a personal point.  Her body was humming with excitement as she thought about the look on the face of the Sanguine once she found them.  Oh, she would want to remember that moment.  The moment she bested the killer who took away the one restraint she had in her life. 

_Look what you’ve made me do.  Aren’t you proud?_


End file.
